Lycoris
by Hereticality
Summary: A few days before the Cleanse, Husk and the Radio Demon haunt a pub to do a magic show, bully a waiter, and talk at length about a whole lot of nothing. All in all, a good night out. [Rated M for coarse language, Pre-Slash, Husk POV]
1. Prologue - Fishbowl

Funny thing is, he's never _really _been a _pessimist_.

No, being a pessimist means seeing things worse than they are, like some kind of depressed piece of shit. Pessimists should be the happiest fucking people, what with everything always turning out better than expected and all.

The day he wakes up a pessimist he'll give that, after all, maybe there is a God.

No, fuck that. Life has made a _realist _out of him, thank you very much. No point running around deluded till you wake up at fifty in the middle of a fucking war.

When you're still alive, buried deep—way deep—there's always this sense of _better_. A vague chance to a nondescript bright tomorrow, just beyond reach. _Hope, _the snob bitch, does not dwell in the shitty present. _Hope _lives in this hypothetical future. A nice little prairie home in the _when _of all things. A moving post that, mirage-like, shuffles further away the closer you get.

It's always _when_. If you're in a deep, deep desert of shit, it's _if_.

_(When_ things will be different. _When _he got clean. _When _the debt cleared, _when _the nightmares stopped _when _the ring fit back on _when when when_.

Language is arbitrary. Say anything out loud long enough, it loses all meaning.

_(He knows all about language.)_

Then you die, you think it will all stop, and there's _this _waiting.

Ongoing turf wars and yearly Cleanses with everything spiralling into blood and chaos, sure. _Actual _fire and brimstone's a blessing compared to the rest. The sisyphean humdrum of everyday. This sick parody of humanity—a life, a body, fucking _bills_—for _eternity_. _Why?_ For _what? _Jesus Christ, he wants a drink.

"Hey," someone in the small audience yells, "d'ya think this shitty magic show thing's gonna start anytime before the Cleanse comes?"

Nervous laughter. Hell has a vibration going through it, in the days before a Cleanse. Pulses with an undercurrent of fear. Feverish anticipation. It's hard to talk about anything else, to keep it out of every joke and cheer. It's an infestation.

Then, something cuts through the looming thoughts of reckoning and Angel spears. A strident, dissonant noise. Sounds the way a bleeding eardrum feels. It only lasts a second.

Husk grits his teeth. Shrugs it off. He is, alas, accustomed.

(Because of course, _of course_ just tonight, to make it extra special, _that guy_ is here.)

_How did I end up here,_ Husk finds himself wondering, reverse cosmonaut, head floating cloud-light above his vest-clad torso in a fishbowl of existential doubt. In Hell, _hope _holds you by the ballsack and shakes you down for spare change. _When did it all go so wrong?_

Because it's not that he is _opposed _to things going ok—it's just that really, shit, with a life like that and an afterlife like _this,_ how long can it take anyone with an ounce of sense to take a hint? In this piss-stained puke-soaked backstabbing wreck of a place, hope's nothing but a pain in the ass.

Fine, _fine,_ if he _has _to be a pessimist, at least he is a _Pessimist_. Capital fucking _P_. A cat of the same dour breed as Leopardi and Schopenhauer. If the curse is the _when_, if sense of time is the source of all despair, then _hope _is the devil's pocket watch. _Non c'è limite al peggio, _the worst has no limit, they say over there, where they call giving someone the air a _Two of Spades_.

Because oh, the grinning one that now sits at the piano—this creature is the goddamn _personification _of hope. Felt mallets on the metal tines of his nerves, that's what he is.

_(Don't let him know.)_

And at the end of it all? The heat death of the universe, if they're lucky.

What a big fucking riot.


	2. a volunteer to ride out

"I fucking swear, Jérôme, if you ain't done within the next _thirty seconds_ I'm making you eat it back up."

A street corner, a dingy pub. A young demon, doubled over, one hand on the filthy wall and one on his alcohol-queasy stomach. He gives no reply other than a grunt and a shaky middle finger. Husk stuck holding the kid's apron, swearing. None of the demons huddled for a smoke in the neon glow of the pub's sign even spares them a look.

"... no, ok, listen… I was covering at the bar," Jérôme tries to say, wheezed, "and these girls kept buying me drinks…"

"Fucking unbelievable."

Husk throws his hands up, letting them fall back against his thighs. Slack, like an exasperated market vendor. Who _the fuck_ gets plastered in the middle of his waitering shift? Don't answer that. He's buzzed himself, unfiltered with irritation, but not enough gone to ask out loud.

"But I had just, like, three." Jérôme staggers upright, a frown of concentration. "... maybe it was four. And a sundae. Wait, no… five? Wait…"

The irritated swish of Husk's tail lifts up dust from the street in the evening air. He holds back from moving his wings too much. Most of his props are stashed in them. Wings are the magic-keepers.

"First rule of bartending, for fuck's sake." The movement also fans a whiff of the kid's unfortunate life choices from the sidewalk right to his nostrils. He gags. "_Gh—_no mixing beer and ice-cream, God. Can't believe I have to be the one to tell you. Again."

"Ugh, shut… get off my back… stop, uh, _judging _and shit..."

One time. The one time Husk has the chance to use his other hobby to make a quick buck. The one fucking time. His last minute piano guy bent over power-washing the sidewalk with sick, what more? Husk hits the pub's wall, side-hands it, crinkling a faded band poster. Some dust comes off the stone, leaving streaks on his sleeve. _Why is this guy's name Jérôme?_ he thinks sourly. _He's not even French._

"You shouldn't be mixing your fucking alcohol, too."

Jérôme lets out a feeble, peevish scoff. "It's a… it's a fucking cocktail, man, it's already mixed..."

"Oh boy."

"Who do you think… who in there you think even gives a shit about a _magic show,_ anyway?" Fresh round of retching and dry-heaving. The kid groans, "Place came with a stage, Boss wants to sell drinks, that's all. It's you tonight and some shitty Ska band tomorrow."

_Yeah,_ Husk thinks, _and that's the goddamn point. _

If it _had _to be any good, Husk would have said no. Who has that kind of energy these days? But there's no point explaining that to Jérôme. Kid works in a pub and can't tell cider from apple juice, he's a lost cause.

Jérôme is a demon of the worst kind: dead both young and recent. A nightmare of cultural disconnect made cockatiel crest on gangly legs. Can't be more than twenty-five or so. Husk sighs through his teeth, letting out a throaty hiss.

"Yeah, and the _Denny & Dunipace_ rejects play on Monday night. I work here too." Using the _Don't get cheeky with me, son_ tone really makes him feel his age. For the purposes of this discussion though, he's decided that his occasional bartending gig counts as _working here_. "Any point you're trying to make?"

"You… you should consider joining them."

"Really? That's your comeback?"

Most importantly, Jérôme is a dick. And an unreliable one to boot. Fool me once, fool me twice, you know the saying.

But Jérôme can find his way around a piano, and this kind of thing is always last minute. It's not like Husk can just snap his fingers and summon some other demon to do it, now, can he? If he could, he wouldn't be in this situation.

"Why do you even _need _a piano man for a magic show, anyway?"

Husk has the misfortune to know a guy that does exactly that. Every time there's a job he doesn't feel like doing himself, or some new harebrained scheme—_click _go those red-clawed fingers. And _bam,_ here's some weird crap to deal with, _Have fun, Husker! Let's get drinks sometime! _

Not the way Husk works. Never has. Bartering, scheming, maintaining a network of connections… listen, it's enough that he remembers to wash his spats, and ring up ol' Niffty once in a while. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

It's true, yes, piano accompaniment is a non-essential. Especially for a routine that's mostly close-up, with no stage grandiosity, no big props to justify that kind of flair. He really… he really shouldn't care.

—_but_ it helps keep time, it sets the mood, it makes the transitions smoother. And Husk, for fuck's sake, he _likes _it. It's the _one_ thing he likes. He has a _process_. Can't he have this one thing, just this once? Something going the way it's _supposed _to go?

Husk nods at the puddle. "Stick with what you know, Jérôme."

It's a stupid little hobby, isn't it? _Magic_, bah. It's childish. It doesn't _need _to be good, he'll get paid anyway. Probably. And if he doesn't, whatever. He can win that money back three times over, just name the game.

This is Hell. Of course no one would care. Husk himself cares least of all. This tipsy, you couldn't pay him to care about shit.

Sober Husk and all that _caring_, he just sets himself up for failure. Sober Husk and all those questions, like rain that pours. _What am I doing, why did this happen, why didn't I say that when I had the chance. _Son of the desert, he does not do well with too much rain. (Sober Husk and all that wretched _hope_.)

He swats the dust off his dirty sleeve. A string of colored handkerchiefs, three plastic flowers, and his pack of trick cards tumble out of it, deaf to his imprecations. He spares a moment to look up at the sky over Pentagram City. Cold, dull, the color of a day-old bruise.

Just looking up at it makes you regret having put effort into anything, ever.

* * *

Husk has no taste for _actual _magic.

He'll look at it, sure, maybe even enjoy it. But he's done messing with it himself. If it can't all fit in your coat pocket, he ain't with it.

Of course, when he saw his first show as a boy, stage magic and _actual _magic were one and the same. That's the appeal, isn't it, to a child's mind? The power, the mystery, the wonder.

Any chance he got, he was on stage. Shot right out of his seat to volunteer, every time a performer popped the question. He loved to play Assistant, take part in the show as more than audience. Disappearing Box, the old classic, was one of his favorites. He'd crawl into the dusty space and listen, heart pounding into the echo of his breath, waiting for his cue. His whole being soared with the applause as he reappeared, but the best part was the Secret. Knowing how the trick worked, when the rest of the room did not. Having been made safekeeper, for a little while. A time-bound spell.

This is about unveiling. The beauty of it. A child-loved fascination that did nothing but grow the more he peered into the skill and engineering of magic. It made him dream that this could be his future, and some dreams are like rattlesnakes: kill them when they're young, the poison's already there. Life won't waste any time trying.

Hell is a place of _actual _magic. Cause and solution of all power struggles. Messy business. Real pain in the ass.

In a place like this, the charm a magic trick lies all in the skill, in the performance, in the way the magician carries himself. The cards are Husk's element, his native language, his playing field. And at the same time, there's no need for every trick to come out perfect. In this upside-down place, it is the measure of imperfection that serves as a gauge of skill, and will not get him accused of simply—_psh—_having _powers,_ or some shit.

He is fond of close-up magic especially. Sitting with people there at the same table. Like a round of cards between old friends. _Pick a card, any card._ The honesty of it, no bets, no stakes. No need to cheat. It's a fragile, time-bound kind of trust. Like a spell, it lasts only until the show does.

_Look at my hands_. _Would be simple, if I explained it. (I won't.) __You could do it too, if you practiced. (You won't.)_

Life hasn't managed to beat this out of him. It tried, it did, beat down on that rattlesnake with a stick until it was mush. It didn't die. Then war had come. Then Hell itself. _I swear, _his hands say, _I swear it is innocent._ Husk has stuck with it beyond death, stubbornly human. Just like his old acquaintance, king of stubbornness, sticking with the name his mother gave him.

_(Magician's fingers, keepers of secrets.)_

This is all the good he has to share, this last shining glimmer.

_(Don't reveal the trick.)_

* * *

Preparations. All his props in place, Husk adjusts the sleeves he never wears. Straightens down his ill-fitting vest. Inhales deep in the greasy air of the pub, pushing the rebreathed alcohol fumes down, down, down. Punishes his lungs for making a grab for oxygen.

He clears his throat, offers his audience what passes for a smile these days, and makes a last ditch effort.

"Evening, folks." He stands up a little taller, at least tries. Damn, he used to be tall. "So, my guy's still outside chucking up. Anyone in here can play the piano?"

Some nasty laughter. Some heckling. A couple demons up and leave. All expected, nothing old, nothing new.

It's the variety in audiences that makes them cruel. It's a game of chances that can't be won. This is your everyday pub crowd. The folks that come here are so used to shitty performers, it might have become this place's shtick. Nothing in common except, perhaps, having nowhere else to go tonight. A healthy dose of self-hate. A tolerance for cheap gin.

Husk allows himself a last resigned sigh. _Whatever,_ he tells himself. _It's just a stupid hobby, anyway._

When he looks back up, he catches a ripple of movement at the corner of his eye. The base of his whiskers gives a prickle, a familiar feeling as a faint buzz of static makes his ear twitch. _Oh, crap_.

All turn. All couple dozen pairs of eyes, drawn as one by the same foreboding dread. All look to the suspiciously deserted corner at the back of the pub. A flash of teeth glints off the wan stage light.

Someone else has stood up, but not to leave.

_Oh, not you._ Husk's hackles rise. _Anyone but you._

A red-clad arm shoots up, straight as a flagpole, in the universal gesture of volunteering. The alarmed chatter Husk is just now noticing grows louder. A current of motion through the small crowd as many try to shuffle away to the exit. A few faint screams: locked.

"I'll rephrase," Husk deadpans. Everyone falls silent. "Can _anyone else_ in here play the piano?"

* * *

Chapter title from Paper Lace's _Billy don't be a Hero_


	3. Soldier's Prayer Book

A gift of silence and ragtime.

* * *

In the moment of hushed silence, the raised hand snaps its fingers.

The lights flicker off and return, changed—sharper and redder and more sinister. Once his eyes adjust, every surface Husk can see is covered in red candles.

Bunches of them on the ornate candelabra that were not there before. A handful on each table. On the new baize Husk helped install last week. Melting, dripping, like they've been lit for hours. The Radio Demon's perennial grin glows faint in the half-light, and he offers Husk the red-edged silhouette of a dancer's bow. His mere presence is thinning out the air in the room.

Fucking _great_. The walking one-man show wants to be his piano guy.

"No one else?" Husk attempts one last time. "Are we sure? Not even _Chopsticks?"_

The grin widens into that something that always makes him think of anglerfish. Of secret places, unlit waters. Husk watches Alastor sink into his shadow, reappearing at the piano with an unsettling slither. The entire first row abandons their tables to move away from the stage.

At the second snap, a single fresnel light shines down on Husk's baffled face. He winces at the brightness, his stomach twisting unpleasantly.

When that piano starts playing… some shit is going down. Anything might happen. Husk has seen this before. Not _this,_ exactly—but this kind of circumstance. Any moment now, something unsavory and _loud_—broadcast, carnage, impromptu musical number—all three, if they're lucky. He knows how these things go. If there's no show to steal, Alastor will snap one into existence.

Yeah, alright. No way in Hell he's getting paid tonight.

Just as Husk is considering how handy it would be to have _actual _magic, just this once, to disappear in a trapdoor and reappear facedown on his couch, the heckler from before speaks up. The only person who—a true paradigm of balls of steel and brains of oatmeal—did not move from his spot now loudly calls for the goddamn show to _start already._ Guy must be suicidal, it's the only explanation.

Already weary, Husk turns to Alastor to see what bullshit he's about to start, what witty one-liner will he spark off the chaos with.

And Alastor… says nothing at all. He merely grins a little wider, self-assured and menacing as ever. He emits no sound other than that anticipatory crackle of static, and slinks onto the piano stool.

Husk watches, frozen in confusion, his long coattails flare out and settle with a flutter down the back of the seat, as he carefully lifts the fallboard and finds his hands on the ivory keys. Despite the cold chills running down Husk's spine, his eyes find a moment to notice the lack of pinstripes, the cut of Alastor's dinner jacket, impeccably tailored and in the deep red of amarena cherries, sporting a single artsy stitch on the left lapel. He takes in the polished, well-loved dress shoe that settles on the pedal, glinting in the light. Something is different, in the way the air twists. He can't quite place it.

_What the fuck is going__ on,_ Husk wants to yell. _Why are you in a__ tux._

The first thing that happens when that piano starts playing, turns out, is utter confusion.

It looks the same, from this angle, but the sound that comes from it is not at all the sound a common upright piano should make. It's pitched higher, metallic, like a music box left open. Husk squints, perks his ears. He knows this. _Really, a fucking Glockenspiel…? Were you all out of marimbas?_ But that's not right either. It's gentler than that, a way mellower timbre. Felt mallets on metal tines, a tickle of vibration against the sensitive hairs in his ears. A sound like raindrops.

Sweat beads on his palms. He feels it, heart-shaped pads growing slick. His feet, too, he's gonna start leaving wet footprints if he doesn't get a grip. Alright, so the piano is a damn _Celesta _now. Not the weirdest thing he's seen Alastor do, for sure. _Keep it together._ That's all there is, spooky candles and ill-named instruments. He can roll with it. When he tries to discreetly dry his hands, he distantly registers a change in texture. He glances down at himself.

Yep. Alright. He's wearing a completely different outfit. It fits like some bespoke fine shit—goddammit, he should be used to this by now. He shifts slightly, feeling the way it falls smooth against his fur.

It comes with fucking _cufflinks._

_What the hell, _he mouths at Alastor, but he is busy arranging _Thunder and Blazes,_ of all things—always with the clown jokes, this goddamn prankster… he's up there to ridicule him, isn't he?—and pays him no mind. The music starts pulling a few nervous chuckles from the terrified audience. A few demons sit back down, shaking visibly. Oh, he must be _loving _this, the smug bastard.

As if he sensed his thoughts, Alastor glances up and flashes him a wide grin. It's full off—something. Well, teeth. Mostly teeth. But something else, too, that Husk recognises as genuine mirth after a moment of soul-searching. Then, with a set of the shoulder that could arguably be interpreted as apologetic, Alastor switches up the tune to something harmlessly jazzy and introductory.

_Huh._ Well. Might as well perform then, fuck it. If he can manage, with his hands sweating like this.

As he clears his throat, now unsure on how these things ever started, he goes to dry his palms again and he notices it. He's not sweating anymore.

The music is whimsical, slightly dreamy, lulling the whole scene into surreality. In fact, he feels—entirely sober. The _good _kind of sober, no rain-questions and crises and curling up in a ball—he feels… sane. Clear-headed. A warmth tingle runs through his limbs, a fearless confidence infusing his apathy like a shot of vodka in cloudy lemonade.

Since he considers himself a hobbyist, he doesn't have a defined stage persona. However, turns out that _Sweetheart O'mine_, played on a Celesta by this particular demon, ends up something with the mood of a _Mystery House_ intro for a Sugar Plum Fairy on acid. That sure gives a guy something to work with, doesn't it? He reaches for his pocket, grinning, with no way to know if any of his props are still in place.

His pack of cards finds its way into his hand, faithful companion of ignored ridicule, and it turns out Alastor can play all the Jelly Roll Morton anyone fucking about on a stage could ever desire. _Fuck it_, Husk thinks again. _Maybe it can work._

_Deep breath._ Cards in hand. The start is tricky, he remembers now: it needs to be strong, but not too complex. Something that eases into it, magician and audience taking the plunge together. _Come, look at my hands. Hold your breath. It's easy._

He starts with _Soldier's Prayer B__ook._ It's a crowd-pleaser, and tickles his taste for irony too much to let go of. Another deep breath, panicky excitement making his tail swish about to the beat. _Come on, it's time._ Toss up some card flourishes, ease into the routine. _Deep breath. Hold it. Take the plunge._

"Now, all right, seems we're finally all set! Hang on to your long johns, folks," he starts, letting his nimble claws cut and shuffle the pack with practised ease. "We're gonna see how my man Dick Middelton, fellow soldier, found himself in front of the _Mayor—"_ He pauses for effect, and _yes,_ his volunteer piano man flourishes it with a dramatic little arpeggio. "—and put on fucking _trial,_ all for pulling out his pack of cards in _church…"_

Trick goes like this: you've got fifty-two cards, and a story built on numbers. The cards come in a sequence, and it's important that people see you shuffle. It's important that they don't see that it's a false shuffle, that's the whole trick. _(Told you it was simple.)_ It must look like the cards aligned themselves in the right order… like _magic _or something. You also need to prattle your way through the thing, the faster the better. The illusion is a little wonder of structure, like the flavors of a complex dish. It's built in layers.

_(He knows nothing of cooking.)_

The other important bit is that numbers and story must meet and align, their accord unseen. It's all in the hands of the magician. Your skill against two dozen prying eyes, and your hands must say, _Look, it's easy. It just happens._ Guard that secrecy with your life.

"So, Dick pulls out his cards, right? Looking to explain himself. He looks up at the Mayor and starts, _When I see t__he Ace—"_ The Ace of Diamonds, worn and familiar beneath his thumb, pops out. First out of the way, the rest of the sequence tumbles easy after it, _"It reminds m__e that there is but one God. When I see the Deuce, it reminds me of the Father and Son. When I see the Trey, it reminds me of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. When I see the Four, it reminds me of the four Evangelists that preached the Gospel: Matthew, Mark, Luke and __John."_

There's the simple, irony-tinged delight of telling a long-winded joke about church in Hell. It already makes it worth it. The part with the _Knave _usually brings out the anarchic spirit of Hell's denizens, and even now, in these dregs of terror, it draws out a chuckle. In the gauzy-soft light of a happy childhood memory in a hard life, he remembers how magicians would sometimes pick on audience members that make themselves a nuisance. That used to be his _other_ favorite part. He flicks the card off, sending it to land perfectly in front of the heckler from before. It gets some louder reactions.

He glances to the side, to see if Alastor has caught it. He is accompanying the number with a cheery hymn-like march that fits the cadence of Husk's patter. Eyes closed, he leans slightly into the keys, tilted forward, like a cattail to water. He's seen nothing.

"And so," Husk continues, "our man Dick Middelton tells the Mayor, who by now is feelin' kinda fond, _When I count how many cards there are in a pack, I find there are fifty-two; there are so many weeks in a __year."_ Time to finish, and pretend he's sure he counted everything right. "_When I count how many tricks there are in a pack of cards, I find there are twelve, and there are so many months in a year._" Only a couple cards left now, to wrap up. "_You see, sir, that this pack of cards is a Bible, Almanac, and Prayer Book, to me_. And that's all we got! Dick, what a mad bastard."

Done, first trick is out of the way, no mishaps. Husk gets some applause and some walk-outs. Door opens again, it seems. He pays it no mind. It's a profession impervious to ridicule, that's the thing. Otherwise, he wouldn't be up here in a top hat, trying to make people in Hell appreciate the simple ingenuity of a parlor trick. It's just logic.

_(Heartfelt logic.)_

The story might have been blasphemous in its time, and it's now the tamest shit ever. It's how it goes with blasphemous things, when times change and outrage changes shape and measure. The shape is a circle, the measure is how far you can cast the first stone. Blasphemy and outrage play a game of cycles, both decks unshuffled, people reinventing the wheel over and over and getting offended by it. Don't bet on this one, shit's rigged.

Through all of it, a separate part of him is listening only to the Celesta, dreamy through the chaos and energy. Alastor and his raindrop music, his heaven-named instrument. Husk finds himself wondering, _how would _We Gotta Get out of This Place_ sound on that thing?_

He turns to the girls at the closest table, same ones that got Jérôme drunk. With things turning out as they are, he almost feels like thanking them.

"Pick a card, any card," he says instead. Time for some classics.

A young demon covered in leopard spots grins and plucks a card from his fan. Shuffle, sleight of hand, everyone knows how this one goes. A smile and a flourish and his voice pitched low, "Is this your card, kitten?"

This is the stage persona the music has given him. Husk really doesn't do this very often, not anymore. It's kind of a relief when the girl chuckles, a little pink under her spots. Alastor makes a funny noise, like the _twang _of a snapped violin string, makes the crowd laugh. He arpeggios his way over a skipped note with the grace of a politician covering up an indiscretion.

And it is, indeed, her card.

The tension in the room has dissipated a little more by then. When the comforting sound of clinking glasses resumes, Husk's tail stops swishing, settling for an idle, interested sway. He does tricks for the rest of the table, then the next, and the one after. As someone asks if he can do _Sam the Bellhop _too, some of the front row deserters creep back into their seats.

_It's working,_ he thinks, incredulous.

Alastor is pulling his routine from thin fucking air. The music always fits: at times it guides Husk's gestures, giving his acting a little boost. At times it follows, letting him set the pace. As it goes, it starts giving Husk the uneasy feeling of being circled, like a cat playing with his food. _(He is not the cat.)_

He ignores it. Now properly warmed up, Husk dives into his sleeve-full of classics. Some coin tricks, swapping them for trinkets and poker chips. More with the cards—there is _so much_ you can do with cards—some glasses and bottles swapping places and so on. There was a display of _actual _magic at the start, so he makes a point to keep everything dead simple, known and reassuring. _That's right, no powers here, folks. Just a nimble old cat. Look closely, look at my hands. See? It's simple. You can shuffle __it yourself__ if you like._ His top hat—now sporting an impeccably shiny red silk band and lining—becomes a portal to all sorts of little objects: lit candles, handkerchiefs, wallets.

There are some knives and plates and shoes to dodge for that last one, but it's worth it. Even for a hobbyist, occupational hazards are half the fun. He looks over just in time to see Alastor smoothly avoid a boot with an unnatural extension of the neck, not a note missed. Husk feels something bubble up inside him, like a suppressed burp. He thumps his chest. What rumbles out instead is a scratchy bark of laughter.

That's… new. Hadn't heard one of those in a while. And even more disconcerting is the smile on the Radio Demon's face. Not even a menacing smile, a real smile. Almost sincere.

The music has changed, something slow Husk struggles to recognise. _It must be the music_, he decides. Has to be. It's that dreamy, fairy-fingered music that tinges the atmosphere this way, and makes him feel _sane _and certain, makes him feel like things make sense. Or maybe—maybe the day of reckoning has come for him too, and that's why Alastor is being so unlike himself. Better make it good, then, what the hell.

Husk pulls a Ten of Clubs out of thin air, and smacks it between his palms. Instead of the expected set of cheap fake flowers, what appears in his hands is a large bouquet of fresh red lilies. He blinks down at them, bunch of sharp things with long lower petals, curved up like creepy little chandeliers. His audience actually gives a faint _ohh _at the sight. The trimmed stems are sharp as chisels.

The bastard is lost in his raindrop music, eyes closed, and cannot meet the baffled look Husk throws his way. The smell of the lilies is cloying to his feline nose, honey-soft and damp, like fresh mud. It makes him think of cemeteries, of floods. Makes him light-headed, too.

Guided by the tingly suspense of the music, moving between tables in the low light, Husk walks back to the used-to-be-piano. He's made the lilies vanish along the way. They now bathe those scalpel-stems in the backwash of a few glasses.

All but a single one. He sets it carefully on the open lid of the Celesta, and watches Alastor's skilled hands improvising their way through Debussy's _Reverie_—ah, that's what it was—drenched in the red candle-light that sharpens and softens every contour at once.

In perhaps in the most daring trick of the whole evening, Husk opens his wings wide, flapping once. In a snap of practiced fingers, the lily reappears neatly tucked into the Radio Demon's lapel, right next to the bright red stitching.

The candles flicker without going out. The crowd gasps in terror, and in a split second of silence Husk feels certain that he just doomed the entire pub to final death. But the music doesn't stop, and Alastor meets his eye, one fine eyebrow quirking up. Husk vaguely wonders how much is he going to owe him for all this.

_(Everything he has.)_

Time's up. He never decides it in advance, but Husk always knows when a show is over. You can feel it, the shift in the energy, when disbelief isn't willing to be suspended anymore. A little high on fearlessness, he bows to his audience. There is clapping, surprisingly, and only moderate booing.

When he turns to share the measly applause with Alastor, he finds the piano stool empty.

Husk looks around. It feels wrong to receive the unexpected praise all by himself. They should at least… bow together, or something. This is Hell: the applause won't last for more than a few seconds. Alastor will miss it, and—there, it's over. He's missed it.

Defying expectations, the pub does not return to its dingy glory in a blink. The strange little piano, the red candles, all the rest—it all stays behind, except the red creature that made a show for him and let him have it.

Husk looks back at the used-to-be-piano, still a well-used and banged up thing. Did it already exist, or was it created new for this, already well-loved to fit the aesthetic? His head, still in the fishbowl, is stuck in the future, in the little _when _that the music created.

His eye falls on the stool, and the single red lily left on it.

_(Everything he is.)_


	4. Fraoch Heather

A strange, pensive mood. Also, fries.

* * *

He sits in a portrait of dejected satisfaction.

__Old magician with beer__, shit on canvas, 21st Century, Hell.

It is believed to represent the aftermath of a performance, that bittersweet torpor. Performing is like doing drugs, they say. There's a high and then a low.

Notice the drooping lines of the old magician's shoulders, where they hang weary, as if holding up more weight than they can carry. The half-lidded eyes that gaze far into the distance, looking nowhere and anywhere. What has he seen? Notice the half-smile that tenses his face in cynical quietude.

The current state should not be used as a gauge of outcome. It could have been a standing ovation, he could have been booed off the stage. It does not matter. The man is winged, and cat-like. We associate cats with cheating death, and wings with freedom. He __can __fly, there's nothing chaining him down, he just does not care to. Why? What is he waiting for?

Consider the fragility of wing-bone under the sleek fur. It would be shinier, if he took better care of himself. His emaciated appearance brings to mind cheap allegories to the human condition, its hollow-boned fragility. The damnation we create for ourselves. Is the __Old____magician__ a cautionary tale against rattlesnake dreams, or an homage to the tragedy of past glory?

__Lean close. Look at his hands.__ What story can we reconstruct? In his magician's hands he gathers his leftover props. The brushstrokes here are short and sweeping, the man immortalized forever in the act of shifting objects on the weathered wood of a bar's table, like a game of Solitaire. A beer bottle, a candle, a pack of playing cards. What does symbolism tell us about this particular trinity?

Is dejection necessarily conflated with indifference?

__("Disillusionment of the Illusionist," you'd say. And laugh.)__

Notice the empty seat in front of him. Notice the red flower, still and unmoved. There, right where you'd put down a plate.

Don't bring it up, though.

Have some fucking manners.

* * *

Husk has claimed the front row table off to the side, the one with the bench against the wall. He doesn't have a bad leg anymore, but still likes to stretch it out sometimes. Habits.

The light of the candle flickers idle on the dark amber glass of his bottle, as he puts it down on the same spot, wet with condensation. It was a good night, all in all. Deserves some malt-sweet Fraoch Heather, just light stuff, attempting to preserve that rare light mood that captured him on stage.

__Can't believe something went well, for once. __He raises his beer to the flower. A stand-in toast.

All the good he had left to share, discarded on a piano stool. But what did he expect, really? He's all out of energy, limbs heavy with the particular, rare torpor of accomplishment. All the evening needs now is a shower and some shut eye.

No, he shouldn't go looking. If the bastard is not around, it's because he doesn't care to be. __No idea where the fuck you disappeared to, you mad bastard, but cheers to that.__

Overall, he must admit, Alastor has used his powers with discretion. He's been careful not to steal the spotlight, even for a moment. He's been almost… considerate. Alastor. __Considerate. __It reads like a dark omen.

Husk is still wearing the outfit, baffled with how comfortable it is. Clothes don't agree much with this form—what with the extra limbs, slinky vertebrae, lack of collarbone and whatnot. The stuff you can learn to live with would surprise you, though. All he had to do was get in the habit of storing essentials in the lining of his hat, like some furred parody of a late Victorian gent. Just thinking it makes him chuckle. That's the level of comfortably buzzed he's managed to achieve, for once.

It's hard to take his eyes off the cufflinks. Such perfect little things, impeccable even under close examination. Perfectly themed, four-parted squares. Card suits, of course. Husk's not exactly hard to shop for, is he?

But, thing is, Alastor's magic is not usually __structural.__ That's a lot of effort, much easier to put up an illusion and hold it for however long. Less clean-up, too. And yet, the elements of the show all stayed behind. The candles, the flowers, the outfit. Even the Celesta. Alastor might actually have made the effort to __make __them.

For the life of him, Husk can't figure out __why__.

A shift. Electricity tickling his whiskers. The air again grows thin with that difference, that brink-of-winter smell like dust burning in an old radiator. He guesses the Radio Demon must have come up to him when, mysteriously, most of the patrons sitting nearby scuttle a few tables over.

Disguising a huff of relief as one of annoyance, Husk puts his feet up on the chair opposite of him, just because he can. "Hey," he greets without looking up, lazily waving his beer. "You missed all the applause."

There's nothing better than walking around the city with Alastor, he remembers apropos of nothing. Strained, terrified smiles everywhere the tip-tap of his shoes can be heard, and no one dares to come bother you. It's fucking fantastic. Only catch is… the guy usually has to be with you for it to work. Not always, though—ongoing collaboration does have its perks. Alastor never needs a reservation to eat anywhere he wants, either. Or any money.

That's a funny one. Despite money __absolutely __being a thing in Hell, the Radio Demon operates as if it were not a thing at all. Dealmaker by trade, he conducts a life of intricate bartering, dealing only in favors and services.

__Why, money has no place in the afterlife!__ he says when questioned about it. It's one of those __principles __of his. No more pieces of paper deciding what he is, or what he owns. There are fires, floods, Cleanses. Papers get lost, soul contracts are forever.

Alastor's a riot to play faro with, and a fucking nightmare to be indebted to.

Not a word uttered, the bastard ignores the free chair and rounds the table, sitting next to him on the bench. He sits too close. Not surprising. Close enough that Husk can feel the dig of his hipbone against his side. __Kinda__ surprising. Husk leans away, but just a bit. Too settled in his spot to shift much.

"T'was like, a whole ten seconds," he continues. "And you missed it. I don't know how you'll live with yourself."

A bottle from his under-table stash, generously offered. Gracious acceptance, evaluation, a snap of deft fingers. Alastor pours his new robust red wine, and Husk laughs. Now, that's some __actual __magic that would __really __come in handy.

There's just one thing bugging him: in over forty years of acquaintanceship, Husk cannot remember a single instance of Alastor not saying a word for so long. The only thing more unsettling than Alastor's voice, after all, is Alastor's silence.

"Oi," he calls, blunt, "did they leave you on mute tonight, or what?"

There is a minute startle, then a faint electric hum and crunch, like the sound of an amp being switched on.

"Just a little preoccupied, I suppose."

The voice sounds farther than usual, like something recorded facing away from the mic, but it is Alastor's unmistakeable nasal tenor.

The pleasant torpor returns, like a big swing of something strong pooling comfortably in Husk's stomach. The knot of dread that was twisting it is only noticed in its dissipation. __Finally, __it breathes out. If the smile is in place, and the voice is doing its usual weird shit—then things can't be any worse than what Husk is used to.

Alastor's voice reminds most folks of old Hollywood—something he's seen make the Radio Demon's eye twitch, if mentioned in his presence—but for Husk, his coeval, it brings back his days of youth and the few idle hours at dad's casino. Had he ever heard Alastor's voice over the radio, back then? It's possible. Guy used to be a big shot, they say. Husk can't say he remembers much.

What he does remember is that they were building a real big dam, south-east. Made a whole pristine town just for the workers, expected to live __free of sin.__ Embodying the defiant spirit of the neighbouring Vegas, the workers still wanted to gamble, drink, and fuck—which at the time had were all at various degrees of illegal. Not easy years, those ones, and in dire times gambling houses are at their fullest. He'd be mopping floors and planning moonshine rides at all hours, listening to the crackle of the radio. The new president, in that same phony rich boy inflection, told them every few weeks that things wouldn't always be this bad. That it would turn. That there was __hope__.

Alastor has called the lily to his hand. He twirls it idly, red on red against his nails. It strikes Husk with a sharp, sudden tug that Alastor has not lived long enough to hear even one of those __fireside chats,__ collect any of the hope.

"Preoccupied? With what?"

"Nothing important, really. I might be feeling a little off." __Con le mani brucianti__, a snippet of operatic wail plays out of him, chopped up with interference, __stringerò i lembi d'oro del tuo manto stellato…__

"... huh." For a second, Husk is at a loss for words. He elects to ignore, gesturing to his drink, the table, the metonymy of hospitality. "Uh, what you say about a bite to eat? That usually helps."

"Hm! I'm not really in the mood," Alastor says, distracted. "But, if you're hungry, I believe I heard someone not clapping at that table over there. Back in a jiffy!"

Confused to alarmed in an instant, Husk starts forward to stop him. Perhaps as a testament to Alastor not feeling much like himself, he makes it in time.

"Wait__no__—I was thinking more like a chippy, or whatever else they have." He clears his throat, a little touched in some weird awful way. "Never sampled the food here, but it's hard to mess up fries, right? Shh, don't answer that."

Alastor lowers the index finger he had raised, likely to make a point about __proper __fries, or whatever, and sits back down. Evidently deeming it a solid alternative to heckler steaks, he takes it upon himself to hail a waiter and get them some beer-battered goodness to share.

"Huh, didn't even know they made them with gravy, here," Husk hums. Salt and grease and beef drippings, what's more to wish for? He rotates the basket to offer Alastor the most bitter-burnt half. "My theory's that British cuisine as a whole is secretly hangover scran."

The Radio Demon is turning his glass in his hands, letting the wine swirl around. "Poison and its remedy, available side by side! Are these the marvels of modernity, I wonder?"

Then he knocks the glass back in a single noisy gulp.

"Uh." Husk looks from him, to the drained glass, to his barely-touched fries. He frowns. "... that usually goes the other way 'round. Have you got a fever, or something?"

Without taking his glove off, Alastor feels his forehead with the back of his hand. "Hmm. Can't say that I know." He probably can't even get a fever, this asshole. "But! It is likely all this giggle juice."

He pours himself another glass, and repeats. Husk blinks at him. Is this the day the freaking __Radio Demon__ outdrinks him? __The fuck is going on. What are you trying to forget.__

"What, you drank before coming here?"

"Some."

Perhaps on the tail of his __talk__ with young Jérôme, he scolds without thinking, "On an empty stomach?"

Alastor snorts, tickled into some dry, bitter chuckle. "Well. As it happens, yes."

"Well, I ain't holding __your__ hair back. I've had enough puke fumes for tonight."

The familiar laugh-track crackles choppily from Alastor's mic. He taps it with a claw. "Husker, my dear friend, don't be so harsh! After all, I've rescued this..." He trails off a moment, gesturing vaguely to the dingy pub, "... __show__ of yours, haven't I?"

Husk lets out a derisive huff. Fishing for thanks, the snob bastard. "Hah, sure. And say, what's it gonna cost me, eh? All of __this."__ He flips up the lapel of his vest with a lazy stroke of his thumb. "Been wondering since you __volunteered."__

"Oh, that." A shrug. "I was thinking of writing this one off as a personal favor. You didn't ask, and I originally came here just for a laugh… oh, but then!" He shoots to his feet, gesturing dramatically. "I see there... a fellow showman! There, on stage, alone and forsaken, without the __barest __semblance of sound support!" A double, heartfelt fist-clench. "And oh, by the names of H.P. Davis and R.A. Fessenden, I could __not __stand witness and just let it happen!"

Cheek propped up on his bottle, Husk waits for him to sit back down. With the patience of a gold panner, he filters through the antics to get to the substance. Something in what he said throws him off more than what he actually __said__ offends him.

Did Alastor... just say he was already in the audience?

* * *

Notes: The first section of the chapter is a tiny homage to Within The Wires (Season 2)

The snippet Alastor plays says [With burning hands I'll clasp the gold border of your starry cloak…]. For reasons.

Husk is referring to the Boulder Dam (now Hoover Dam), and the federal company town built for its workers, Boulder City (!), during the Depression. The influx of lone worker dudes gave Vegas some good business.


	5. Marksman

"Don't call me a __showman__," Husk mutters. He raises the bottle to his lips, shrugs right before sipping. "Would not have been a tragedy, anyway. If the show had been bad, I mean."

In an eerily smooth sequence, Alastor blinks, tilts his head to the side, and serenely asks, "My dear Husk, are you a masochist?"

Right beer, wrong pipe. "I'm a __w—__"

"I'm merely curious to know if you enjoy making a fool of yourself in public, that's all." The Radio Demon's trademark grin appears, that anglerfish abomination. "Because if that's the case, I can __certainly__ be of assistance!"

"Oh, fuck off." Husk shudders. There's a part of him that wants to ask, __Who taught you that?!__ and that's definitely __not __a part he should listen to. "It's just… magic is just a __hobby.__ I do it for some cash, and for the shits and giggles. I don't really give a fuck about the results."

Damn. It sounds even more hollow, said out loud. A wide expanse of vulnerable underbelly exposed, ripe for the gutting. Husk tenses, bracing for it, for the knife in Alastor's smile.

"Hmm. Perhaps I need a new hobby," Alastor says instead, chin propped on the heel of one hand. "I've been quite __bored__, lately."

Husk can't help but roll his eyes. __Oh no, whatever shall I do! I've become too good at everything!, __the wording implies. The mention of the __boredom__, however, sends some worries to sleep. That's why Alastor was here, that's why he did __all that.__ No secret plan, no reckoning coming. He was just __bored,__ doing things on a whim. __Classic Alastor.__ That's good, it's simple, it makes sense. All normal.

"So, anyway, yeah… thanks. For doing… __that," __Husk grunts, unclenching slightly, gratitude peeking through the cracks of his beer-mellowed hostility. "The thing you did. With the... __décor__ and the props. And the weird little piano."

Alastor's neck snaps in his direction with a pop. "That's a Celesta! Authentic __Mustel__, from my collection."

"Yeah, that. It was… different." Husk has to look away from him, retinas seared by the growing brightness of his tail-light eyes. Their shape persists as a neon-edged spot in his vision, following him everywhere he looks. "I had __fun, __and just. Uh. I __appreciate __it, there you have it. Fucker."

The whole of Alastor perks up, shooting to his feet again as if the bench zapped him, a red blur at the corner of Husk's eye.

"Ah-hah! Always thrilled to help out a friend, Husker, my dear pal!" Even the long, swept-up tufts of his hair seem to stand at attention. His smile, metaphorically and in always upsetting literality, finally reaches his eyes. "Simply __thrilled__, I tell you!"

"'Course you are." Husk waits, lifting an eyebrow.

"Positively __ecstatic!"__

"Charitable soul, you are."

"And maybe… you'll owe me __just __a teensy little bit."

"There we go."

"Just a small favor. First bloodless job I come across, I'll ring you up first thing!" Alastor grins. Going very still, without moving his mouth or head, he plays a clip of Husk's voice back to him, __Blood's bad for my fucking nerves, lately.__

Husk recoils, skin crawling. "Jesus, I hate when you do that. You cursed dictaphone."

That manages to startle Alastor into an actual laugh. A nasal sort of chuckle, his shoulders shaking with it. The laugh-track still accompanies it, inseparable, with its clapping and whistling. Husk allows himself a grin of his own: the bastard sure knows how to make a guy feel like he landed a good joke, damn him.

"But you're a half-decent sound designer, I'll give you that," he admits. "I thought all you ever did was talk."

Alastor waves a hand, as if giving his words a lazy swat. "Hah! I've worn many hats in the radio business, in my years. They don't just __hand you__ a talk show, you know." Then, with affected gravity, he adds, "But I wholeheartedly accept your backhanded compliment, and pay it back to you __tenfold!__"

"Much better than Jérôme, at least," Husk snickers. "In your face, Jérôme!"

"__Haha__, yes! Eat my __dust,__ Jérôme!" A light punch in the air. "... who is Jérôme?"

"Suck a dick," grumbles Jérôme, on break a few tables away, buried in his phone.

Surprisingly, there's no need to try and stop Alastor from cutting the idiot's afterlife short. Husk notices only when he feels the tension in himself, his hands ready to go up in a placating gesture that now has no outlet or purpose.

Alastor has gone pensive again, staring off into some unseen horizon.

"Or maybe I'll just take care of that for you, huh?" Husk says anyway, because he had it prepared so might as well. He points to the back of Alastor's head, the V of close-shaven hair now long enough to touch the top of his high collar. "You're getting shaggy again."

Red-tipped fingers rise and slick the edge of the undercut down, riffling through it like wind on short red grass. "Ah. Already."

Husk sneers a little, but without real malice. "It's your fault for picking such a high-maintenance haircut." He adds, "I'll do it soon. And we'll call it even."

He, too, has worn many hats in his—much longer, thank you—years. Skilled hands have many uses, if one's not picky.

"That ought to be bloodless enough," Alastor concedes. _"___If__ you're careful."

__Why does it matter, __Husk thinks, a little stung. __What's a guy with a razor to your powers?__ Trying to keep defensiveness out of his tone, and letting it all in via his frown, he half-snarls, "I __always__ am."

It's reassuring in a way, to keep tally even after all these years. Keeps everything in place, all the lines where they're supposed to fall. If they're even and stay even, the balance of power will hold. A perpetual standstill suits Husk just fine. After all, he is one of the few that refuse to walk the tightrope of Alastor's good graces. Or at least, so he likes to think.

"It might be some time before I come across a job suited for you, after all. Say, Husker," Alastor says then, pitching his voice a little different, "what would you say, if I... made myself scarce for a little while?"

"Best news I've heard all day," Husk spits, looking straight ahead, still in a ribbing mood. "Why, planning to skip town or something?"

He hears a faint, wistful sigh. "I've been thinking… maybe it's time to retire off to the countryside. Spend some time in..." Another vague gesture, "... __nature__, and so on."

Husk knows exactly what he means by that. He turns and gives him a long look.

"In __nature."__

"Yes."

"To the __Village."__

"Where else?"

"… why __the fuck__ do you wanna go sing with a bunch of cannibal weirdos, all of a sudden?"

Another long sigh. "I tire of the city," Alastor says, wording it like some weary Lord about to send his butler packing to leave his town house __posthaste,__ seized by the urge to go wander a moor in his robe, or something. "And I haven't been around people that share my interests in… well. In a while."

Husk lets out a long, unfiltered groan. He has heard this before: it's not uncommon for Alastor to get these disappearing itches. Husk has not seen him or heard of him at all for years at a time, in the past. Everyone needs their alone time, he guesses. Most peaceful years he can remember.

"I'm hoping for a return of __inspiration,__ if I spend some time around people I can __truly__ be myself with."

Husk returns to looking straight at the wall. A vague ache starts, deep in his gut. A cold, queasy twist that has nothing to do with the drinking. __Huh.__ Must be the gravy.

"Fuck off and move there, then."

There's an imperceptible movement next to him. The only reason he feels it is because they're sitting so unnervingly close. Whatever it was, Alastor masks it by taking a long sip. "I… find that it lacks intellectual stimulation, after a while."

Husk pictures it. Alastor and his glaring reds against the rolling hills and quaint cottages. Blindingly complementary in that greenery, stark against the clotheslines heavy with white linens. Bedsheets and bonnets and bibs, bellied out like sails, bloodstains rubbed off with salt and cold spring water. All tinged a bit yellow—he's not sure they have washing soda over there. It's not the same, but makes him think of the smell of iodine.

And all that __singing__... Alastor might have a higher tolerance than most, but not even him is deranged enough to stand it indefinitely.

"Yeah, no shit."

"I'll see after the Cleanse, perhaps."

"'Course." Husk lets out a derisive laugh, uncaring of the bare nastiness in it. "Couldn't miss your favorite sport, could you?"

"Indeed," Alastor echoes. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Something in his voice. There's always a lot going on with Alastor's voice, but something in it sets a crawling feeling down Husk's spine. The hairs on his nape and back rise, his grasp on his bottle tightens. Trying to put aside his body gearing up for a fight, he lets the cold dampness of condensation ground him. There are coasters on the table, he notices. They weren't there before.

The worst part of a Cleanse are never the blood and screams. No, just like in wars above the ground, the scariest part are the volunteers.

It happens, to get like this, when dealing with eternity in a place like Hell. Every year, when the countdown on the big clock tower goes down into the single digits, there is always some demon that starts talking about being __tired__ of it all.

Not everyone that lands in Pentagram City stays, keeping up the pretenses and trudging through this parody of life. Some wander off, go to test the limits of their immortality. Husk knows that some find them.

He just never considered that Alastor might end up among them.

* * *

War has a thousand ways to make you forget what you're doing.

It starts way before, back home, with the posters and the newspapers and your neighbour's whispers, __Skipped out on the two big ones, have you? __Then the training that sticks with you, and you aren't fighting people anyway, you're fighting __The Enemy__, real big ugly thing without a face. You learn, you eat it all up, you're a kid again. Everything's easy, when you're taking orders. That's the appeal of it, isn't it? The power, the righteousness, the ready answers.

__(There is no wonder here.)__

You were never a man of faith but at your blindest, you feel that there's finally something you believe in, a lighthouse on the aimless horizon of your life.

You'd go to war for it. They send you.

You make friends and don't think you'll lose them all. They like that you do tricks, that you're older. (Like their dad, back home.) They like that you have nimble fingers and a pack of cards always stashed somewhere __(Bible, Almanac, and Prayer Book)__. They like that you shoot fast and straight, makes them feel secure.

You lived a hard life, but nothing can prepare you for what it means to kill.

You do it at a distance, mostly. But not always. Seen up close, it's an instant, no different than the rest of time. The arbitrary nature of it—who could ever decide this? __The Enemy__ is just a man again, and he would have done the same. But you did it first. It's your soul that starts to chip away.

Some of your new friends have strange names. __Thorazine, Darvon, Dexedrine__. Others, too, names you haven't even stopped to read. __Don't freak out on us, Marksman. If you start to feel off, take a pep pill. __You're in your fifties and all you see are little boys killing each other. You see them do worse, too. __Keep going. Don't get crazy. Here, take one more—recon mission's a long one. Keep going. It's not the time now, don't look, don't think about it.__

Then they make you try and starve out __The Enemy,__ spray you all with defoliant. __Shit's harmless, haha, unless you're a tree__. Humans are the funniest animals; when it's life or death, we always crack a laugh. It's death this time. Lots of it. It's there to this day, sinking into the ground. It wasn't you personally, perhaps. But you still breathed, and did nothing.

The noise it made when that lighthouse came down, even death cannot shake off the shell-shock of it, your ears still ringing. Maybe that's why your Damnation gave you feline ears. A cat's nose too, for those iodine nightmares you try to drown, that pool-sick stench that clings on for days.

They send you home decorated, with your head full of mud-stench and jungle shadows, your body rotting from the inside out. Your blood cells got confused on what their job was, like everything else. Your old companions dropped like flies, one after the other. What a prize.

In a couple of years you're dead too, that last year a gap in your memory, a sinkhole of too-far-gone and soiled sheets. Who knows what the fuck your death certificate says—down in Hell, all you need is your Landing date.

War has a thousand ways to make you forget you're ruining lives. Hell has a thousand ways to make you remember it.

When you hurt someone you don't stop to look. If you stop, you'll see it's just some bastard like you, neither of you wants to be there, and then what happens? If you stop and look, the illusion crumbles, the lighthouse goes down.

__(Keep the secrecy. Don't reveal the trick.)__

Do it all smiling, do it all without sleeping, do it all and don't you dare come back an addict. God, what a fucking disgrace.

Look at your hands, the heart-shapes on them. The arpeggio of clicks to reload your M21, your hands remember it like a music score. You built a life on those nimble hands, your tricks and your good aim. You built your damnation on the same.

Somewhere in there, there's a big fucking metaphor, you just need to look.

__(Don't look. Keep going. Don't look.)__

* * *

Notes: Auguste Mustel is the inventor of the Celesta (1886). He died in '19 so (if he's in Hell) Al might or might not have tracked him down and charmed him into making him a custom one.


	6. Atto III, scena 1 Summary:

Husk fits the pieces together.

* * *

The cologne is making Husk sneeze.

The difference in smell blindsides him, sudden, as he sits and tries to trace back all the ways he's just made an ass of himself. It's no easy task, while buzzed, and the smell kept distracting him and there he is now, noticing it. And once he's noticed it, it's hard to believe he's __just now__ noticing it.

In turn, Alastor notices his wrinkle-nosed frown. "Something the matter?"

"What, you don't smell that?"

"Smell what?"

To put it politely, Alastor's sense of smell always... left a bit to be desired. Maybe it decayed over time, overloaded with that swampside abattoir fragrance that walks with him, damp and heavy, like it has its own presence. Maybe it's just an unfair comparison with feline senses.

Bottom line is, this pungent musky shit is __not__ the evil Husk is used to, and it's giving him a headache.

"If it's a new cologne, fucking ditch it. Smells like shit."

"Oh, __that__!" Alastor tut-tuts, critically. "It __is__ rather strong, isn't it?"

Husk finally lets go of the sneeze he was holding. "Yeah. Chemical as fuck. Reminds me of iodine, of all things."

Alastor magics it off himself in a swift gesture, as if wiping his neck with an invisible cloth. The pungent tang instantly stops stabbing at Husk's nose, and he inhales deeply.

"Better?"

Husk grunts affirmatively. The usual coppery wet wood scent is like an embrace of familiarity.

One good thing about Alastor, at least, is that he's thick-skinned. You can tell the guy anything, even that he stinks, and he hardly ever takes offense. You'd think fucking kid gloves wouldn't be required in Hell, and yet. Even here, turns out, not having to watch his language and control his temper all the time is a special kind of freedom.

It's only in the middle of this thought that he realises he's been sitting there and breathing in that good old swamp smell for an awkward length of time. And that Alastor has been letting him.

He clears his throat, leaning away. "So, uh… were you going for a what, a change of style, or something?"

"Oh, it wasn't mine." Alastor, casual as ever, idly flicks something from under his nail. "I just didn't notice, until you pointed it out."

"Huh?"

"I was on a date, last night."

Husk, to his own credit, only chokes on his drink a __little__ bit. "A d—__coughfuckdammit—__a __date__?"

Red alert—red alert. Dangerous territory, landmines everywhere. All of Husk's senses are set on edge, alarms blaring. Tales of murder and dismemberment? Sure, grab a drink. Alastor's mysterious love life, or lack thereof? God, fuck, he's not sure this bar is stocked enough for this. He's not sure his brain has the resources. Alastor __dates?__ He's getting tunnel vision.

"And… how did that work out?" he asks anyway, because he hates himself. His palms grow slick again, he almost loses his grip on the bottle.

Alastor's chest moves in a sigh, but the sound that comes out is akin to a feedback whistle. Husk's eardrums pulse, whiskers twitching. __Shit. Oh shit.__

"Could have been better, I daresay." Alastor looks away, has the gall to steeple his fingers. Like someone that's __nervous,__ intermittently letting his claw-tips click together in the most irritating way possible. "Had I in fact known __beforehand __that I was on a date, most likely."

__Click.__

"Huh." Husk tips his hat back into place. Represses the urge to slap Alastor's hands. "Hate when that happens."

__Click. Click. Click. __A chuckle, but only a small listless thing. Not promising in the slightest. Husk hasn't seen it too often, this version of him. Alastor does not get __nervous.__

He is an obnoxious sober, an insufferable tipsy, and a rather morose drunk. But this? What is __this? __This particular hollow smile, these avoidant eyes, these skitter-off hands. The familiar is uncharted territory, and Husk didn't come prepared to hack his way through the jungle.

The claws are still clicking, and the urge to grab them and make them stop seizes all of Husk's heightened senses. He doesn't do it, of course. He's not a moron.

"We went to the opera. We saw the __Turandot__."

Husk whistles, and toasts with his empty drink "Cheers to that. How many riddles did he get right?"

He's playing with fire, right there. First off, he assumed it's a guy, because of the shitty cologne. He refuses to give this line of reasoning more thought than that. He then not only alluded to some kinky opera roleplay, but also… he revealed he knows __some__ about the opera. Two out of three are deadly offenses, by the tightrope law. The third is a death-wish for a number of other reasons. Husk moves his feet off the sweaty footprints he's leaving under the table, opens a fresh bottle with a flick of his claw. Deep down, he's a bit too far in to care.

Luckily, the Radio Demon was only half-tuned in, and doesn't seem to have picked up on the double entendre. Small mercies.

"Friends still go to the opera together, don't they?"

__Do they?__ Husk has no idea. He doesn't know what friends do. He doesn't know what you do on a date. In fact, he feels, he's never known a single thing in his entire life.

"I... guess?" he manages.

"So, he walked me back to my place, as we discussed the production and so on," Alastor is saying, his voice set as if for a __storytime __segment. There is no mention of a name, of how they met, anything of the sort. There is only clicking, and Husk's inner monologue short-circuiting to, __Shit,__ __it really was a guy.__

__Click. Click. Click.__

__Be still,__ he wants to beg__, let's talk about something else.__ Red fingers on ivory piano keys, felt mallets on metal tines. __Isn't it odd, that I've known you so long, and never heard you play? __The novelty of it, the surprise. It was magical, forgive the pun. __What else have you mastered, in your time here, what are the other things that don't keep you entertained anymore? What else do you do for fun, save for wandering the city in search of something interesting, like some sort of lost pinstriped ghoul?__

__Tell me some. Tell me all. Let's change the subject.__

__(Please.)__

"I was arguing my point about the pacing in Act Three—__I saw it only one time before, mind you__, I told him—oh, it was at the __Metropolitan Opera House__, the brand new one? In case you were wondering. They sent me over to report, and—"

Husk briefly fantasizes of swatting him with a wing to make him stay on topic. If only.

"—and oh, I had the most wonderful time. With Master Serafin's conduction and Madame Jeritza in the titular role, and __oh,__ the costume design…! It was well worth the travel, and enduring New York in November. Would have loved to see it in French at the __Tulane__, but it did not get there in time to… ah, where was I?"

When he talks animatedly, Alastor has the tendency to inch closer until he's pushing people off their seat. Husk grips the edge of the bench, shifting back to his spot as discreetly as he can. He feels the friction of fabric on fabric on fur with alarming intensity.

"Act three. Pacing."

"Right! Yes, my point was, I remembered __Turandot __up above ground being just about as bloody as this one, __but__ a lot less… oh, how to put it?"

Husk makes a resigned gesture. "... raunchy?"

Through means of demonic transformative powers, productions in Hell often end up a few degrees saucier than their Earth equivalents. Authors, if still around, tend to protest or spearhead these rewritings in equal measures.

And Alastor, who has a taste for all violence except the raunchy kind, nods and scrunches up his face in snub-nosed disgust.

"Precisely! And I say to him, I say, __why would you add unnecessary scenes, instead of fixing the pacing issue that was there to begin with?__ Would be about time, it's been almost a century! And he was __disagreeing__ with me." He takes a dismissive sip of his drink. _"___Insistently."__

"Yeah, uh. Unforgivable," Husk sighs. "And then?"

He's developing a theory of what is going on. Alastor __hates __it when he thinks he's found a new __friend,__ but then something absolutely inconsequential happens—and now they must die. Tightrope walkers, the lot of them. He breathes out, relaxes slightly.

"Then, certain that I could make the man see __reason,__ I invited him up for a nightcap! So that we may further our fascinating __tête-à-tête.__"

The tension seizes Husk again, so quick he can feel the cramps forming. Alarms blare again in his mind, back snapping straight. He's pretty sure he just pulled a muscle. "... right."

He can just picture it. Not that he wants to… but he can. Willing or not, you find out a lot in four decades of acquaintanceship. He knows that Alastor is a decent host. He probably offered a sip of something good—his __Courvoisier__ stash, or maybe some __Ola Dubh—__he probably conjured up some sweets, two steaming cups of strong black coffee. Set it up all nice on his cherrywood table. All the while bouncing around, fluttery and high-energy, gushing about opera. __Yeah, all right.__ Other guy, poor misguided soul, most likely got the last wrong idea of his afterlife.

"It had just been __so long__ since I had someone to share theater with." A twitch in the smile, as a red-tipped finger pokes the charred bits of potato left in the basket, pushing them like tiny brown ships on a sea of greasy paper. "At some point, something concerning this sentiment… might __not __have come across as intended, I think."

"H… __huh__."

Shit, now what? Here on this bench, with Alastor shoving him off the seat by inches—what the fuck is he supposed to __say__ to that? Orchardist's hound is a bad look for a cat.

A simple, __what did you expect__? Or more elaborate, questioning, __did you sit by him like you're trying to crawl into his lap, did you talk the way you always talk—with the pet-names and all your touchy-feely bullshit? Guy thought it was fair game to get handsy, how are you surprised? __Or... say nothing at all.

What did this opera enthusiast newbie that went home with the freakin' __Radio Demon__ even look like? Why didn't any of his friends stop him? Husk's hands are wet, his fur and feathers are puffing up as his skin itches with irritation. __Dog demon. __For some reason, every time he happens to imagine Alastor caught in some uncomfortable situation, it's always a dog demon.

A maddening incongruence of factors: someone of Alastor's status, so __embarrassed__ over something so inconsequential. The fact that it's all over __opera__, of all things. The fact that someone who's clearly a __nobody,__ some poor bastard that must have died __yesterday__ to be __that__ fucking stupid, thought he had any right to—

(__Take a breath. Hold it. Take the plunge.__ Ask direct, like a band-aid ripped, __Alright, how handsy are we talking, exactly?__ Greet your final death with both middle fingers up.)

Save for a couple selected topics, Husk never had much interest in keeping up with living world news as they trickle down into Hell. Same shit as usual, say the newly dead. Lots of unfairness, lots of mess. Always some new war. __Days of our Lives__ is still on. __KENO__ broadcasts in Spanish now.

Despite this, he has still managed to get himself into some altercations with younger patrons at the bar, over his—what was it?—__problematic language__, or whatever. Nowadays it's all __x-words__ and __y-slurs,__ can't call anything with its name anymore. Not even when you don't mean it in a bad way.

Back in his day, when someone went asking for trouble and found it, you told them to their face. How else is anyone supposed to learn any damn thing? Not by calling it __victim-blame__, or whatever nonsense. Bullshit. Was it __victim-blame __when he got sent home and found the bits of his life did not match at the edges anymore—the debt, the city, the ring, everything coming apart—and all he could do was stare for days on end into the bottom of a bottle, like the piece of shit he was? No, that was all him, he didn't need anyone else doing it for him. He victim-blamed __himself__, thank you very much.

And Alastor, most times, behaves in ways that undeniably go asking for trouble.

Not that trouble fazes him in the slightest, the overpowered little bastard. Your everyday psychopath is affable and charming, at least. Can hide in a crowd. Alastor has some sort of visceral anti-charisma that sets off people's fight or flight response. Most of those he meets seem to instantly want to throttle him.

But one can't help but wonder… did he get in trouble that way a lot, in that short before-life he lived...? Fuck it, he's not __remotely __drunk enough to start down this lane.

"And so, after a __swift__ clarification, he sort of… looked around for a little while." Case in fucking point, Alastor shifts his legs and catches Husk's shins between his ankles. "Admiring the __décor,__ I'd assume."

Husk tries and fails to suppress a snort. Man, the look on this guy's face when he realized what kind of place he willingly walked into. Maybe, he tentatively starts to hope, __maybe__ it all ends there. With antler décor. A misunderstanding set straight. An almost-friend sent on his way in the night, after a non-date at the opera.

"He didn't seem very keen to talk about the production anymore, however. He asked if I was going to put a __curse __on him." The grip tightens, polished dress shoes digging slightly into Husk's calves. "You know, Husker, sometimes I worry I have single-handedly given Voodoo a bad name."

"T'was likely a team effort," Husk offers. "You, and the Halperin brothers."

In the beat that passes, Alastor's only reaction is to magic his drink again. "Oh, I __loathe__ that talkie," he says darkly, smile stiff.

The used-to-be-wine he pours is now an intense amber hue, and Husk can smell cayenne pepper, a whiff of gunpowder, and the distinctive burnt caramel notes of Southern rum. __Well, damn.__

When it boils down to it, like some of the best cocktails, Master Husk's secret recipe for peaceful coexistence—and occasional work association—with the Radio Demon is made of three ingredients only: 1) Mind your damn business; 2) Never touch anything or anywhere without asking first; and 3) Never, under any circumstances, __ever__ let him know the title of that song you can't stand. That's about it. Sometimes he thinks about hunting for a book deal.

He doesn't know half the stuff Alastor is involved in, and he's not in any hurry to amend that. Based on his Peace Cocktail, when everything is too confusing, the only thing to address is the one that makes sense. There's always one, even in the Radio Demon's chaotic surroundings. If you know where to look.

So, Husk lets out a long groan, stretches, and asks, "D'ya need help with the body then, is that what's going on?"

Whenever there's a kill, there's always clean up work. For all his __manners __and pressed suits and immaculately starched collars, Alastor is terrible at actually eating over his damn plate.

"Hmm? Why, no! No body whatsoever." A sharp fingertip draws an eerie wail from the wet edge of his wine-glass. Alastor immediately plays back a recording of the noise, testing it a couple of times. "I was not in the mood, I believe I mentioned it."

Husk's ear flicks back and forth. "Thought you meant you already ate," he says defensively. "So where's the guy now, then?"

A hum, a half-shrug. An eye that wanders, looking for a window to glance out of. A smile that shows traces of tension, just for a moment, undetectable to the untrained eye.

"He might still be over at mine. I have yet to check."

Husk's sharp, trained eyes stare, unblinking, for a solid thirty seconds. "Alastor," he says, "are you out of your mind?"

"Oh?"

"Why on __earth __would you leave a complete __stranger__—did this bootleg Calaf hit you upside the head or something?"

He lifts his hand, aiming it at those scrambled deer-brains with the certainty that Alastor will move away before it actually touches him. Instead, Alastor tilts his face down, offering the crown of his head for inspection.

"Not that I can remember, no," is the worrying reply. "But do check, and let me know."

Not only is Husk's hand allowed into the bubble of personal space that Alastor believes he alone is entitled to, but the bastard straight up __headbutts__ his palm. Husk stares, speechless, at his hand cradled between those mesquite thorns that pass for antlers, his fingers sinking into the yield of red hair he's recruited to trim once in a while.

Alastor, there in yesterday's clothes, smelling like another man's bad cologne. Alastor, avoiding his own house, planning to skip town. Alastor and that strange, pensive mood, his eyes that reveal more than he'd like.

Despite their long acquaintanceship, Husk has never known exactly what Alastor's __problem __is. If he's Just Like __That__, or if he's gone through __something __that made him.

(Oh, you'd __hate __that, wouldn't you? Having been __made__—anyone or anything claiming your Damnation as their handiwork. A Stirnerist, that's what you are, and you don't even know it.)

But perhaps, in the end, it might just be that he was raised Catholic.

"Uhm," Husk manages to articulate, eloquent. He pulls away with a shrug and his hand tingling, baffled, then reaches over and moves the rum out of reach.

"All those songs on the radio, Husker," Alastor says, low, a little uncertain. "The opera, the plays. It's all played up for entertainment, isn't it?"

There's a reason why Husk is one of the few that can beat the Radio Demon at card games.

"The tragedy, the __passion__, the madness… exaggerations, making the mundane interesting! What would the world be without them? Oh, but sometimes…" He trails off, voice growing hard to hear, as though his volume dial were turned all the way to low. "Sometimes… I wish the rest of it made a lick of sense, too."

For starters, Husk has the guts to play to win. Secondly, consider this game of uneven odds. The weight of a smile that shows all its ragged edges. Husk and his panic-heart, his slippery footprints. His eyes on forbidden scriptures, heavily guarded.

"R-right," he grunts through his parched throat. He drains his own drink in one long gulp.

For all his obnoxiousness, Alastor is a private man. He wears that unmoving grey mask of a face, acts impervious to all emotions a smile can't convey. If the smile is there, things can't be any worse than usual.

"I am just… so __bored__." Alastor's voice crackles with interference, showing its raspy undertones, like a texture you can hear. Felt mallets on metal tines. "The __vulgarity__ of it all. So terribly, hatefully, wretchedly __bored__."

Thirdly, anyone really good at cards is a bit of a magician: a tell is a tell, and a cold read is a cold read. Husk excels at cards, and Alastor is the anti-Buster Keaton: expressive eyes are always the curse of a stoic.

__(You just need to look. Just need to listen.)__

* * *

Being Husk i g  
also, having out of touch grandpa moments but mostly in your head.

also a ton of references because why the f not.

The bit of Act Three of the Turandot they are discussing is: giacomo-puccini/turandot/principessa-di-morte/. Reading through the lyrics, you can guess why Al would be a tad unsetteled.

-  
The 'talkie' Alastor mentions is _White Zombie_ (1932), one of the first instances of 'spooky movie voodoo' that contributed to the idea people have of it nowadays.


End file.
